


Sticks and Stones

by schweet_heart



Series: Merlin Fic [199]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arthur Finds Out About Merlin’s Magic (Merlin), Awkward Flirting, Awkward Sexual Situations, BAMF Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), BAMF Merlin (Merlin), Banter, Bathing/Washing, Chair Sex, Chicken (destiny and), Chicken (game of), First Kiss, First Time, Hand Feeding, Hand Jobs, Humour, Hurt Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, M/M, Magic Revealed, Merlin's Magic Revealed (Merlin), Mutual Pining, Oblivious Merlin (Merlin), Protective Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Protective Merlin (Merlin), Sexual Tension, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:20:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22949977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schweet_heart/pseuds/schweet_heart
Summary: When Arthur breaks his wrist on the day before an important tournament, it falls to Merlin to tend to him while Gaius is away, and he can only hope that his ridiculous attraction to the prat will go unnoticed. (Un)fortunately for him, however, Arthur has other plans; plans which apparently involve driving Merlin crazy, and possibly even conquering his heart.
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Series: Merlin Fic [199]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/70688
Comments: 88
Kudos: 1734
Collections: Finish that Fic Merlin!





	Sticks and Stones

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fifty_fifty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fifty_fifty/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Art:Sticks and Stones](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18049640) by [LFB72](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LFB72/pseuds/LFB72). 



> With many thanks to LFB72 for her wonderful art, and for helping me suss out some of the medical aspects of the story. Any and all inaccuracies (and I'm sure there are many) are my own. Also, for anyone wondering, technically ice pits have been around since c. 1780 BCE [[x](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ice_house_\(building\))], though I may have fudged the timeline a tiny bit for the sake of personal entertainment. 
> 
> Dear FiftyFifty,
> 
> This was supposed to be finished in time for your birthday in March 2019, which was apparently almost a year ago now; then I was hoping to have it done by the holidays, but somehow I managed to miss that, too. To be fair, the fic was also originally supposed to be around ~2k words long, but we both know how that one goes. I hope the length makes up for its tardiness, and that you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. 
> 
> Happy Merry Belated Birthday Christmas! <3 
> 
> ~schweet
> 
> Please do not repost elsewhere or list my fic on Goodreads (or any other similar spaces).

Arthur is already trying to sit up by the time that Merlin reaches him, his face the colour of sour milk and his forehead beaded with sweat.

“I’m fine,” he says, which is so obviously a lie that Merlin doesn’t bother to dignify it with a response. Llamrei, being the well-trained creature that she is, has already slowed to a trot and is circling back towards them, and Merlin tosses his own mare’s reins over a branch as he dismounts, kneeling beside Arthur in the mud to inspect his wrist.

“I’m pretty sure it’s broken,” he says, after a cursory examination—cursory because he had heard the bone crack when Arthur fell, but also because he’s never known Arthur to use that many swear words in such rapid succession. “We need to get you back to Gaius. He’ll be able to wrap it and give you something for the pain.”

“Fantastic,” Arthur grumbles, but the fact that he’s making no effort to get to his feet tells Merlin that he’s more shaken than he’s letting on. “I suppose that means I’m going to miss the tourney tomorrow, too.”

“Well, you could compete,” Merlin says, arching an eyebrow at him. “But I wouldn’t recommend it. For one thing, it would probably hurt.”

It was pure bad luck that Arthur should fall now, only a day before he was due to compete in Camelot’s annual jousting tournament. Merlin had been hearing about little else for weeks; as reigning champion, Arthur had been somewhat obsessed with retaining his title, and he had done nothing but eat, sleep, and breathe the sport for what seemed like forever. Merlin had been dragged from his bed at sunrise every morning to help him train, to the point where he had come to rather resent the whole business, but he had long ago given up on trying to shift Arthur’s single-minded determination to a less exhausting subject.

Today’s ride was _supposed_ to have been a less intensive form of training, so as not to overtax the prince for tomorrow’s competition; instead, Llamrei had shied at a passing squirrel and Arthur had gone flying into a ditch, taken entirely by surprise at her sudden startle. Had it not been for the paralysing terror Merlin had felt in that moment, watching Arthur hurtle headfirst towards the ground, he might have considered the whole thing to be poetic justice, after a fashion, but he had been too afraid that Arthur would break his neck to really enjoy the spectacle. Now, seeing Arthur propped up against a tree trunk and breathing shakily through his nose, the thought of him in pain is enough to drive all levity out of the situation.

“Here,” Merlin says, wedging his shoulder under Arthur’s good arm to help him stand. “Lean on me, sire. The sooner we get you back to the infirmary, the better.”

Arthur scowls at him, but he doesn’t reject the offer, relying awkwardly on Merlin’s strength as he clambers to his feet. He stands swaying for several seconds, looking rather green around the gills, and for a moment Merlin is afraid he might be about to be sick.

“Arthur?”

“I’m fine,” Arthur says again, shaking his head, and finally he takes a few halting steps, his jaw clenched so hard Merlin can see the muscles flex. He’s familiar with that expression; it’s the same one Arthur wears when he’s gearing up for a fight. “It’s going to take me a while to get back on foot, though. Maybe you should just ride on ahead and let the castle know what’s happened.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Merlin objects at once. “The king would skin me alive if I left you out here alone and injured. Besides,” he adds, when Arthur begins to look mutinous, “ _I_ don’t have a sword. Supposing I run into bandits on the road?”

“I’m sure they’d take one look at you and decide you have nothing worth stealing,” Arthur says, rolling his eyes, but that does seem to be enough to get him moving again.

+

When they reach Camelot at last, it’s almost dark, and Leon is standing atop the castle steps waiting to greet them, his arms folded accusingly over his chest.

“You’re late,” he says, before spotting Arthur’s injury. “What happened?”

“Arthur took a fall,” Merlin explains, handing off the two horses to one of the stable-boys. “I think it’s a clean break, but I want to get him to Gaius right away. Can you tell the king we’re back?”

To his surprise, Leon’s frown only deepens as he shakes his head. “Gaius isn’t here,” he says, glancing from Arthur’s arm to Merlin’s face and back again. “He was called out to an emergency a few hours ago, and he might not return until dawn.”

“Damn,” Merlin mutters. He looks over at Arthur. The prince had started complaining almost as soon as they’d set out—about the heat, about the tournament, and most of all about the squirrel that had started this whole mess—but as the day wore on and the castle hadn’t seemed to get any closer, his grumbling had eventually tapered off into a grim-faced silence. They had paused for a while on the road to fashion a makeshift sling for his arm, which seemed to have helped somewhat, but looking at him now it's clear that the exertion of their journey has taken its toll. He needs Gaius, or at the very least some willowbark tea, but apparently the former isn't going to be in the cards tonight. “Did he say where he was going?”

Leon shrugs, and Merlin chews on his lower lip. Maybe Gaius had left him a note, or some kind of message—

“Merlin can do it,” Arthur says.

Both Merlin and Leon turn to stare at him. He stares back, innocent, smudged with dust from the road, and when neither of them says anything he repeats,

“Merlin can treat me. He’s been helping Gaius for ages—I’m sure he knows how to set a bone by now, don’t you, Merlin?”

“Well, _yes_ , but—”

“There you are, then. Problem solved. It’s not exactly urgent,” he adds, when Leon opens his mouth to object. “Gaius can take a look when he returns, but right now I would very much like the chance to get cleaned up, and I can’t do that hanging about out here.”

He gestures pointedly to his soiled tunic and hose with his uninjured hand, and after a moment’s hesitation, Leon nods.

“As you wish, sire,” he says, and after bowing to the two of them he disappears in the direction of the king's bedchamber, presumably to let him know his son has returned.

“Are you sure you want me to set it for you?” Merlin asks when they’re alone, a mixture of pride and anxiety churning in his stomach. He’s treated patients without Gaius’ help before, and they had all been fine in the end, even the one he had accidentally turned blue; but none of them had been Arthur. “What if I make things worse?”

“Then I’ll put you in the stocks for a week,” Arthur says, as though this were in any way comforting. “Stop _worrying_ , Merlin. It can’t be that difficult.”

Easy for him to say, Merlin thinks, but he can already tell that arguing will be useless, so he trails Arthur up the steps and into the castle, pausing only to send another servant running for some bathwater. At least Arthur can’t say he didn’t warn him.

+

The first thing Merlin does when they reach the prince’s chambers is take off Arthur’s tunic, pulling it oh-so-slowly over his head so as to keep from jarring the injured arm any further. By the time he’s done, Arthur is whey-faced and sweating again, but at least this way half the battle is over.

“I’ll have to treat your wrist first, to keep it immobile while you bathe,” Merlin tells him, and Arthur nods without looking up, still breathing hard. Merlin has taken to keeping a small medicine chest in Arthur’s rooms, filled with bandages and assorted remedies for minor ailments, because it saves time when he inevitably gets into one of his scrapes. He draws a fresh roll of cloth and some supplies from it now, then settles himself across from Arthur, gesturing for the prince to hold out his arm.

“This is probably going to hurt,” he says regretfully, wishing there were something more he could do to ease the pain. He has some willowbark in the chest, of course, but Arthur flatly refuses to take it straight and he doesn’t have time to boil some tea before the bathwater arrives. “Are you sure you don’t want to take something for it?”

“Just get on with it, Merlin,” Arthur huffs, though even his bravado can’t hide his flinch as Merlin takes hold of his hand.

[ [Art by LFB72](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18049640) ]

Working as gently as he can, Merlin splints the break and wraps the bandage carefully around Arthur’s wrist, ignoring—mostly—the sight of Arthur’s bared chest as he concentrates on his task. It is not, in fact, a particularly complicated process, but he still manages to almost mess it up several times, distracted first by the gradual furl of Arthur’s nipples as a cool breeze drifts in through the open window, and then twice more by the need to cover up his own distraction. Arthur seems mercifully oblivious, for the most part, but when Merlin nearly drops the bandages for the second time he lets out a sigh and says drily,

“I suppose I should count myself lucky it wasn’t my sword arm I landed on. I might never compete in a tournament again, the way you’re carrying on.”

“Oh, shut up,” Merlin says, tying off the bandage with an extra tug just to spite him. Anyway, he knows Arthur all too well; as soon as Merlin’s back is turned, he’ll have the bandages loosened until they’re practically undone, and then he’ll complain about being stifled when Merlin scolds him for it. “You’re going to be fine, you big baby. I _have_ done this before.”

“I’m not sure that makes me feel any better,” Arthur says, but he subsides anyway when Merlin shoots him a look, and Merlin finishes off his work with a whispered spell that he hopes will take the edge off Arthur’s discomfort.

With the injured limb now firmly immobilised, all that remains is for Merlin to finish preparing the prince for his bath. Removing his boots is a simple matter, but his trousers and small-clothes present a different problem. Usually, Arthur would disappear behind the changing screen to remove his underthings, preferring, as he puts it, not to parade about in his altogether any more than he has to. Given that Morgana has a disturbing habit of barging in without knocking, especially when she is least expected or wanted, Merlin can’t exactly blame him for his modesty, but as he’s not going to be able to undo his own laces for a while it creates something of a logistical question.

“I’m going to have to, um,” Merlin says, cursing himself for his blush as he gestures at Arthur’s trousers. “I mean, it’s not like you can do it yourself, so…”

He trails off. Arthur raises an eyebrow.

“It’s not _that_ traumatic, is it?” he asks, and Merlin glowers. “It’s fine, Merlin, just—do what you have to do.”

Not exactly enthusiastic, perhaps, but it _is_ permission. Hesitantly, Merlin kneels on the stone floor in front of the prince, undoing the fastenings of Arthur’s belt. Then he unties the laces keeping Arthur’s fly closed and helps Arthur use his good arm to push the fabric off over his hips. The trousers drop to the floor, revealing a pair of braies and the smooth, golden skin of Arthur’s calves.

“Well?” the prince says, making an impatient gesture. “Get on with it, then.”

Gulping, Merlin undoes those as well, trying not to look as the material falls away and exposes Arthur’s cock to the warm summer air.

  
From this angle, it is difficult to avoid noticing it. It’s just—there, only a few inches from Merlin’s face, so close he wonders if Arthur can feel his breath against the bare skin. It occurs to him, belatedly, that if anyone were to enter the prince’s chambers at that moment, he would appear to be in rather a compromising position, and he is just scrambling upright again when a timid knock comes at the door.

“One second!” Merlin calls, the words coming out rather squeakier than he would have liked in his alarm. He turns to look at Arthur, but the prince is already heading towards the changing screen, so he shakes his head and tries to stop thinking about Arthur’s—well, _Arthur_ —while he focuses on preparing the bath without being executed for sorcery.

It’s not as if Merlin hasn’t seen Arthur naked before. He _does_ help dress the man, after all, not to mention bathe him and tend to him when he’s sick or injured, just as he is doing now. They had long ago ceased to have any secrets from one another in that regard, yet there is something about the present situation which strikes Merlin as more than usually intimate. Despite his general irritation with Arthur’s more prattish qualities, he has always hated seeing the prince hurt or uncomfortable, and right now, Arthur is clearly both, but on top of that he also looks _disappointed_ , and Lord help him but Merlin can’t bear it when Arthur’s upset.

“There _will_ be other tournaments, you know,” he says, when the serving girls have gone. “Loads of them. And I’m sure you’ll win them all and be just as insufferable about it, don’t worry.”

“It’s not that,” Arthur says. “Well, not entirely that, although I’m gratified to learn you think I could win every tournament. It’s only—my father isn’t going to be pleased when he hears about it.”

Merlin is silent. His opinion of Uther isn’t very high at the best of times, but every so often he finds it dips to a new low. For all the king claims to care about his son—and perhaps he does, in his own screwed-up way—he can be awfully cavalier about Arthur’s emotional and physical well-being, and there are times when Merlin has to bite his tongue to keep from saying things he might regret. No one should be made to feel guilty about being injured, especially when they’re hurt and in pain, and for a father to do so to his own son is unconscionable.

“It’s not as though you did it on purpose,” he says finally, picking up Arthur’s discarded clothes and beginning to put them away. “It was an accident. He can’t be angry at you for that, surely?”

“Maybe not.” Arthur re-emerges from behind the changing screen, towel wrapped loosely around his waist, and Merlin’s mind goes temporarily blank as all of his blood rushes to uncomfortable places. “But he won’t be pleased that he has to cede the purse to another knight this year. Camelot can’t afford to give away so much gold to no good purpose.”

He walks over to the side of the tub and drops the towel, revealing a perfectly toned, muscular arse as he does so, and he has already clambered into the bath before Merlin remembers that he probably ought to be doing something.

“I—I’m sorry,” he says, clearing his throat and giving himself a mental shake. “I should have helped you—”

But Arthur waves him off. “It’s fine,” he says. And perhaps Merlin is imagining it, but it almost looks like he's blushing, although it’s probably just from the steam. “I’m not an invalid, Merlin. I can manage perfectly well with one arm.”

Merlin doesn’t argue, since this is very obviously true, and after telling Arthur to make sure he keeps the bandaged limb out of the water he hurries off to fetch another towel, grateful for the opportunity to hide his burning cheeks. He can hear slight splashing sounds from behind him as Arthur begins to wash, and knowing he is out of sight behind the armoire he presses the towel against his face and wills certain overexcited parts of his anatomy to calm the fuck down. Sometimes, having to work for Arthur can be excruciatingly unfair.

+

Washing Arthur’s back is—thankfully—a less fraught occupation, and it gives Merlin a much-needed chance to collect himself as he focuses on scrubbing the mud from Arthur’s skin. Arthur has his bad arm held awkwardly out of the tub and is leaning forward slightly to give Merlin better access, providing an uninterrupted line of sight down the naked curve of his spine. Already, Merlin can see the faint purple marks that will have deepened into bruises by the morning, and though he tries to work as gently as he can, he can still feel Arthur stiffen and flinch any time he presses too firmly on a tender spot.

“I’ll have to treat those when you get out,” he murmurs, more to himself than the prince, and Arthur lifts his good shoulder in acknowledgement.

“There’s some arnica on the side table,” he says. “But I’d prefer it if you could apply it _without_ inflicting additional injury, if you don’t mind.”

“Ass.” Merlin digs in a little harder between Arthur’s shoulder blades, and is rewarded by Arthur’s answering groan. “I’ll leave that part for you to do yourself, since you’re so good at it. I thought you knights were supposed to be more stoic about this sort of thing.”

Arthur snorts, but all he says is, “Speaking of knights, I’ve no doubt Sir Ulfric will be pleased to hear I won’t be competing this year. I bet he’s telling anyone who will listen that I deliberately threw myself off my horse just to avoid facing him.”

Sir Ulfric was a knight from a neighbouring kingdom, as famous for his bragging as he was for his ill-temper. He and Arthur had never gotten along, ostensibly because Sir Ulfric was Arthur’s closest rival in terms of skill and expertise, but in reality because he was also a cheat and a liar.

“No one who has seen the two of you fight would believe that,” Merlin says, moving on to scrub the dirt from Arthur’s hair. “If anything, he’s the one who benefits from your being injured; it keeps you from embarrassing him the way you did last time.”

“It _will_ give him a clear shot at the title,” Arthur agrees, sounding somewhat rueful. “Although perhaps my father won’t be so angry at me if he wins; he's always liked Sir Ulfric, for some reason.”

“That’s because he has terrible taste,” Merlin mumbles, just low enough that Arthur can pretend not to hear, and the prince lets out an amused noise that he quickly passes off as a cough. Pleased, Merlin sluices the soap from Arthur’s scalp, then with a tap to his good shoulder helps him out of the tub, somewhat relieved this time that his view is interrupted by Arthur’s towel.

“Allow me, sire,” he says, picking up the second cloth and using it to dry off Arthur’s hair. Arthur leans into it, his eyes closed, and Merlin lets his movements slow, watching the lines of pain and aggravation ease gradually from Arthur’s mouth and eyes. He has no right to treasure them, these moments, but he can’t seem to help it; there’s a kind of pride in knowing that Arthur trusts him enough to be vulnerable, to let his guard down even in such small ways in Merlin’s presence.

By the time he moves on to drying Arthur’s chest and legs, there’s heat in his cheeks and in his belly and he feels oddly breathless. Arthur’s face is half turned away from him, his bottom lip caught between his teeth, and Merlin does his best not to notice that the prince is very obviously erect as he dries off the last of the moisture. He helps Arthur into his trousers, Arthur’s hand an uncertain weight against his shoulder, then sits back to wipe his sweaty hands over his thighs. With Arthur’s lower half now fully covered, some of the tension has gone out of the room, but even so the prince seems unable to look Merlin in the eye.

“Where did you say the bruise balm was?” Merlin asks, needing to break the silence. It’s either that, or do something completely stupid, like throw himself at Arthur’s feet or try to kiss him. “In the armoire?”

“Side table,” Arthur says. He crosses the room away from Merlin to sit on the bed, moving with a jerky stiffness that does little to conceal its cause. Merlin pokes around the side table drawers for longer than necessary, wrestling with the desire to go over there and—what? Offer to help with Arthur’s _other_ difficulties as well? The prince wouldn’t thank him for it, he knows; Merlin has never felt comfortable prying into that side of his personal life, but he’s fairly certain that even if by some miracle Arthur were interested in men, Merlin is not likely to be counted among them. 

Retrieving the small jar of arnica cream at last, he clambers over the bed to sit behind Arthur, settling a polite distance away from him and unstoppering the container. “Is Camelot really so poor?” he asks, hoping to distract himself as much as the prince as he spreads balm over Arthur’s battered torso. “I mean, surely your father wouldn’t agree to host the tournament if he weren’t willing to give away the gold at the end of it, regardless of who he thinks will win.”

“It’s not so much a question of poverty.” Arthur shivers a little under Merlin’s touch, his skin pebbling, and Merlin firmly does not think about scooting a few inches closer to him—purely to keep him warm, of course—or the possibility of moving his hands around and down— “My father hosts these tournaments to prove Camelot’s strength and power to the other kingdoms. As the Crown Prince, it’s expected that I will be the one to win the tourney, not only to keep the gold in our coffers but to prove that our army is the strongest and most powerful in the kingdom. It helps deter anyone who might be thinking of attacking us.”

  
“And it allows your father to profit from your skill and character,” Merlin grumbles, and Arthur lets out an audible sigh.

“He’s the king, Merlin, and my father; it’s both my duty and my honour to fight in his name.”

Merlin makes a noncommittal sound. “That doesn’t mean you ought to kill yourself over it,” he says. “All that training—is that why you’ve been so obsessed? Because you don’t want to let your father down?”

“Because I don’t want to let _Camelot_ down,” Arthur corrects. “King Bayard may not be about to break his treaty with us just because I failed to compete in the tournament, but it does weaken Camelot’s position, quite aside from the financial considerations. A kingdom is only as strong as its reputation.”

Now it’s Merlin’s turn to sigh.

“That’s a lot of pressure to put on one man,” he says, and Arthur grunts something that might have been agreement. “Still, I’m sorry you have to miss it.”

They are silent for a time. Merlin focuses on rubbing the salve deep into Arthur’s skin, feeling the prince’s taut muscles slowly unknotting beneath his fingers. He wishes there were something that he could say, something that would let Arthur see how valuable he is, even with a broken wrist—even if he’d broken every bone in his body. But everything he comes up with sounds far too personal, and in any case Arthur would never believe him; he’s taken Uther’s strictures on the role of a prince far too deeply to heart for anything Merlin says to counteract them now.

“I think we’re done,” he says finally, laying his hand flat at the base of Arthur’s neck. He means only to give the prince a little push, urging him up again so that he can help him put on a shirt, but instead his hand just rests there for a moment, absorbing the warmth of Arthur’s skin. There’s a pregnant sort of hush in the prince’s quarters now, just the sound of their breathing and the crackle of the fire to break the silence, and Merlin wonders—not for the first time—whether Arthur would shove him away if he leaned in to kiss him, or if he’d welcome it; whether Merlin were reading the humming tension of the room correctly or just caught up in wishful thinking.

“Merlin,” Arthur says, and Merlin jumps slightly as the prince swivels around to look at him. “I think I’ll forego the shirt for the time being. It’s warm enough that I can sleep without it, and I don’t want to have to bother with my arm.”

“Of—of course, sire,” Merlin says, stuttering a little as he’s brought back to reality with a thump. “That’s probably a good idea.”

He doesn’t mean for his gaze to stray down to Arthur’s chest, but the alternative is looking into Arthur’s eyes, which is worse. By the time he lifts his head again, Arthur is no longer smiling, but he doesn’t look angry either, his gaze flicking thoughtfully over Merlin’s face before glancing away.

“You must be tired,” he says, his voice as carefully neutral as Merlin has ever heard it. “Send one of the other servants to fetch my supper, and then you may go.”

“Yes, sire,” Merlin says, and he forgets all about putting the arnica away in his rush to get out the door.

+

He spends a restless night in his own quarters, alternately trying not to remember touching Arthur and unable to forget about it, before ultimately giving in and taking himself in hand. The pictures rise in his thoughts unbidden: Arthur, naked; Arthur still dripping from the bath; Arthur bending over him, all soft mouth and tawny muscle as he pushes Merlin down onto the bed, and it’s all he can do not to cry out as he comes hard into his fist—the same fist that had rested against Arthur’s nape mere hours before.

He cleans himself up guiltily afterwards, then lies back on the bed and stares at the ceiling. Six more weeks of this, at least. Eight if he’s unlucky. How is he supposed to continue taking care of Arthur without giving himself away? Arthur’s physical reaction notwithstanding, he has no proof that the prince is attracted to him, and ample evidence of the sort of ribbing that might occur if he ever discovered the role he plays in Merlin's fantasies. Not that Merlin thinks Arthur would be cruel, necessarily, but it’s already enough of a joke that he feels this way in the first place; the last thing he wants is for Arthur to tease him about it in a misguided attempt to pretend that everything is okay.

What he really needs is to take a break, to get away from Arthur for a while, or at least to keep from being trapped with him in such close quarters. He wishes with all his heart that he could just ask Gaius to take care of it, but the physician had sent word that he would be away for a few more days, having found himself in the middle of an outbreak of the sweating sickness, and Merlin can’t in all good conscience call him back for this. No, he’s going to have to deal with it himself, and simply hope that Arthur won’t notice anything amiss—although he rather thinks it’s far too late for that.

The next morning, Arthur is difficult to rouse, and turns out to be quite grumpy when Merlin finally prises him out of bed, his pale face and shadowed eyes telling the obvious story of a disturbed night. Cursing himself for his thoughtlessness, Merlin doses him with a steaming cup of willowbark tea then sits him down on the bed again to massage the stiffness out of his shoulder, focusing intently on Arthur’s back to avoid dwelling on his own reaction. Perhaps he focuses a little _too_ intently, however, as Arthur looks rather pained by the time he’s finished, although he is quick enough to conceal it when Merlin brings out the sling.

“I can’t go around wearing a _sling_ ,” he says indignantly, emphasising _sling_ as though it were a dirty word. “I have a reputation to maintain.”

Merlin fixes him with a level stare, unmoved by this entreaty. Dealing with recalcitrant patients was the first skill Gaius had taught him, largely because of the man sitting right in front of him. “Did you think you were just going to get up and start waving a sword around after five minutes? Your wrist is _broken_. Either you can rest it for the time it needs to heal, or you can learn to do without it. Your choice.”

Arthur glares at him, but he allows himself to be manhandled into the strap, and even takes the second cup of the willowbark mixture that Merlin presses on him, muttering something unflattering about physicians and their foul-tasting potions under his breath. Merlin endures this with the ease of long practice.

“You’re just lucky Gaius is away,” he says, patting Arthur’s back cheerfully. “His potions always taste _much_ worse than mine.”

His good mood comes to an abrupt end over breakfast, however, when he realises that, things being what they are, he’s going to have to help Arthur cut up his food. As in, _feed_ him. Which wouldn’t be so bad, really, except that Arthur is doing his damnedest to take advantage of the situation, and Merlin is still flustered enough from last night's debacle that he winds up letting him.

“Come on, then,” Arthur says, leaning back in his chair and smirking like the insufferable prat that he is. “My wrist is broken, _Mer_ lin. I can’t possibly serve myself.”

“The only thing broken about you is your brain,” Merlin grumbles, but he takes a deep breath and begins slicing the meat, adding it to a chunk of bread and some cheese then holding it out for Arthur to take. The prince, however, merely looks at him, eyebrows raised, and doesn’t move his uninjured hand from where it rests against his cup.

“I’m afraid I’m otherwise occupied,” he says, tapping the goblet meaningfully with his fingernails. “So it would seem you’re going to have to do it for me.”

“ _Arthur_ ,” Merlin protests, but there’s a spark of challenge in Arthur’s gaze now, and Merlin narrows his eyes. “Fine. But I want it to be known that I think you’re a lazy sod.”

“Duly noted,” Arthur says, his amusement deepening. He looks up at Merlin through his lashes, opening his mouth expectantly to take a bite of the bread, and if Merlin refrains from shoving it down his throat it’s only because he’s once again caught in the heat of Arthur’s gaze. If he didn’t know better, he might almost think Arthur was _flirting_ with him, but of course, that’s impossible. “Mm. That’s delicious, thank you.”

It’s the _thank you_ that does it, a touch of unexpected civility that takes him by surprise, or maybe it’s the appreciative little sound that Arthur makes when he takes his second bite, but as Merlin picks up another piece of bread a flush sweeps through him, and his hand begins to tremble so much that he almost drops the slice. Arthur catches his wrist before he can do so, however, guiding it back up to his mouth again with his eyes never leaving Merlin’s face. Merlin lets him do it, his heart pounding, and when Arthur has finished with that piece, he turns instead to Merlin’s fingers, pressing them to his mouth so that he can lap up all the crumbs.

“ _Arthur_ ,” Merlin says, in an altogether different tone.

“Merlin.”

“Are you,” He has to swallow to say the words. “What are you doing?”

“Cleaning up.” He lets go of Merlin’s wrist before Merlin is quite expecting it, and Merlin has to catch himself on the chair before he overbalances. “Pass the cheese over, will you? I think I can handle things from here.”

Merlin hands the platter to him and leaves the room without saying a word, closing the door behind him and then leaning against it in a daze. He can still feel the heat of Arthur’s tongue on his fingers, his skin prickling all over at the thought that Arthur might—that Arthur could possibly—that Arthur had been _toying_ with him, for God’s sake, trying to see how far he could push before Merlin noticed what he was about. 

“You _prat_ ,” he says out loud, needing to give vent to his feelings, and he’s almost positive that he can hear Arthur laughing as he walks away.

+

When Merlin returns after the mid-morning bell, he finds the prince leaning against the windowsill and brooding, the knuckles of his good hand pressed against his mouth like he’s holding back a secret. Merlin stops short in the doorway, the sight of him setting loose a cloud of butterflies in his stomach, and it’s suddenly difficult to remember how to take another step: he had not anticipated that Arthur might not only guess at what he was feeling but also respond in kind, and he has no idea what he's supposed to do next. Had Arthur merely been teasing him, or did he have other things in mind?

“There you are, Merlin,” Arthur says, moving away from the window to turn and face him. “And just in time, too. I have a job for you.”

“What sort of job?” Merlin asks warily, stepping further into the room. Backlit by the sun, Arthur’s expression is difficult to read, but Merlin knows that tone of voice of old, and it’s ten to one he’s not going to like what Arthur’s about to say. “I thought you were going to the tournament this afternoon.”

“Yes, that is true.” Arthur flashes his teeth in a predatory smile. “But since my arm is injured, I was thinking that I might need someone on hand, you know—to pour the wine, and fetch me things.”

“Someone to torment, you mean,” Merlin says, his heart thudding with mingled anticipation and dismay. Arthur _knows_ how much he hates these ridiculous sporting matches. “And I suppose you thought I’d be perfect for the job.”

“Actually, you’re far from perfect,” Arthur corrects him, grinning when Merlin scowls in response. “But you’re the only manservant I have, and since it _is_ one of your duties…”

“We can change that,” Merlin mutters, but Arthur affects not to hear him, and he resigns himself to a waste of an afternoon.

As he had expected, Merlin is bored out of his mind before the second bout, but fortunately there is entertainment to be had elsewhere. Arthur seems to have taken Merlin’s reaction that morning as encouragement to continue his little game, and he and Merlin have been engaged in a furious but silent competition to see which of them can get the other to break first. So far, Arthur is winning, largely because he has his free hand hooked discreetly in Merlin’s belt so that he can't escape, one finger drawing distracting circles along his bare skin. Merlin hates him. More specifically, he hates the way Arthur has managed to find a direct line to his cock without even trying, and the fact that he’s currently so hard he can barely stand it, despite the fact that the king and Morgana are sitting only a few scant feet away.

“Would you like me to fetch you some water, sire?” he asks desperately, when the action halts at midday so an injured man can be carried off the field. “Or—well, I really should see if I can help with Sir Ian’s leg—”

“I’ve already arranged for another physician, boy,” King Uther interrupts, unknowingly quashing Merlin’s attempt at escape. “Felix is old, but he’s very experienced, and he’s better suited to tending to the sons of nobility than a mere apprentice. You may remain seated, unless my son has another errand for you.”

Red-faced for an entirely different reason now, Merlin pulls away from Arthur and sits up straight, pressing his lips together to hold back the remark that’s burning on the tip of his tongue. He’s not just Gaius’ apprentice—he hasn’t been for a long time—and he’s certainly more than just an errand boy, although he can’t explain as much to Uther if he wants to keep his head. He feels Arthur shift beside him, the prince’s hand brushing lightly over the curl of his fist for a moment before it drops away.

“Actually, Merlin, there is something you could do for me.” He smiles, meeting Merlin’s furious gaze with a clear one of his own. “It’s getting hot out here in the sun, and I’m sure we could all use some ice to cool ourselves down. Would you mind going to the ice pit to fetch us some?”

“You want me to get you some ice,” Merlin repeats woodenly. Is Arthur joking?

“Yes.” He isn’t joking. “And maybe cool down a bit yourself while you’re about it. You’re looking a little flushed.”

If Merlin’s flushed, it’s because Uther is infuriating, and because Arthur’s had his hand up Merlin’s tunic for half the morning, _a fact which Arthur knows full well_ , but he at least has the good sense not to say as much out loud. He nods stiffly and gets up, thankful that his erection at least seems to have subsided, and makes his way down from the stands on wobbly legs, torn between anger at Uther’s dismissiveness and frustration that Arthur apparently saw fit to confirm it for him. It’s not until he reaches the ice pit and steps down into its cool, soothing interior that he realises Arthur might have been trying, in his clumsy way, to give him a reprieve.

He lingers in the darkened storeroom for the better part of half an hour, listening to the roar of the crowd and thinking over this new—whatever it is that seems to have blossomed between him and the prince. It’s more of a flirtation than a relationship, and more of a competition than a flirtation, but if Arthur is determined to play chicken with him, then Merlin will be damned if he’s going to just stand there and take it. Smiling to himself, he chisels free a few pieces of ice and wraps them in a clean cloth to take back to the prince, enjoying the weight and coolness against the heat of his palm. Against all odds, he’s almost looking forward to the rest of the day’s events—and it's not because he’s developed a sudden passion for jousting.

Arthur brightens visibly when Merlin returns, and even manages a genuine thank you when he distributes the ice among the royal party, though his expression becomes a trifle fixed when Merlin also takes the opportunity to slide a tiny chip of ice down the back of his neck.

“You’re looking a little flushed yourself, sire,” he says sweetly, as Arthur tries valiantly to keep the outrage from registering on his face. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be gone so long.”

“That’s—quite all right,” Arthur grits out, shooting Merlin a glare that promises all sorts of retaliation when they’re alone. “You didn’t miss anything.”

“What a pity,” Merlin replies, but he’s feeling a lot more cheerful when he sits down. “Hopefully the second half will be a bit more interesting.”

+

Sir Ulfric sweeps the field that afternoon, and without Arthur to oppose him is all but guaranteed to win the final bout the following morning. Merlin is disappointed, but not surprised; Sir Ulfric’s tactics are bullish and underhanded, and he’s never been afraid of using dirty tricks to win.

“Congratulations, Sir Knight,” Uther says, standing up in the pavilion to shake the winner’s hand. “That was very well fought indeed. It’s only a pity my son was so clumsy as to injure himself yesterday; otherwise, we’d have seen a real match between the two of you.”

Merlin’s earlier anger at the king rekindles at the sight of the quickly-hidden shame that flashes across Arthur’s face, and he wishes he had some more ice chips to flick at Uther’s head. Instead, he relieves his feelings by spelling Ulfric’s bootlaces together, so that when he goes to walk away he trips over his own feet. Merlin isn’t the only one who snickers loudly as the knight gets up, but the glare Ulfric sweeps over his audience lingers on him for a long moment, the knight’s face turning purple with poorly-suppressed anger.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Arthur says later, falling into step beside him as the two of them return to the castle for dinner. “Sir Ulfric isn’t the sort of man you want for an enemy, and I don’t think he appreciated being laughed at.”

“It wasn’t just me,” Merlin says, shrugging, trying to ignore the way his spine tingles at Arthur’s proximity. “Besides, he deserved it.”

“That,” Arthur says, smiling and settling his hand proprietarily against Merlin’s lower back, “goes without saying.” But he seems to be pretty happy that Merlin said it anyway. “Still. You need to watch yourself around him. His tricks on the field notwithstanding, he has a great deal of power and influence and he won’t hesitate to use it.”

“I can take care of myself,” Merlin assures him, though he can’t help feeling a trifle uneasy all the same. The look in Ulfric’s eyes had been too close to hatred for comfort. “Or are you worried about the damage it could do to your reputation if your manservant were to engage in fisticuffs with a visiting nobleman?”

“No,” Arthur says seriously, turning his head to meet Merlin’s gaze. “I’m worried about the damage it could do to you.”

Merlin’s heart skips a beat at the look in his eyes, and he has to turn away to hide his reaction. It’s stupid, he knows—Arthur’s only flirting with him for the fun of it; it’s never going to be anything serious. And yet…

“Besides,” Arthur adds, his breath warm as he leans closer to Merlin’s ear. “If you get injured too, how will you look after me? That’s the real concern here, _Mer_ lin.”

Laughing, Merlin twists out of Arthur’s hold and dodges away from him, taking the stairs two at a time to burn off some of his excess energy. Sir Ulfric might be leading the tournament, but Merlin and Arthur’s own little jousting match is still too close to call, and Merlin’s skin is practically buzzing with the pent-up tension. If he’s lucky, maybe he won’t be alone with his hand tonight; he’ll have Arthur’s hand on him instead, and Arthur’s mouth, and that particular Arthur-related itch he’s been carrying around will finally be scratched in the most satisfying way.

+

He’s still feeling a little giddy at the feast that evening, although by unspoken agreement he and Arthur have both toned down their behaviour somewhat—Merlin because he has far too much to do to be distracted, and Arthur, he suspects, because he’s too busy dealing with Sir Ulfric’s pointed remarks to think of anything dirty. It doesn’t help that Uther seems to be egging the young knight on, inviting him to tell stories of his and Arthur’s previous encounters as though to punish his son for the temerity of having been injured. True to form, Sir Ulfric has risen to the occasion with characteristic insensitivity, telling the entire court about the time Arthur had fallen from his horse in the middle of a hunt when they were both sixteen.

“I must admit, I’d have thought the prince of Camelot would have had a better seat,” he says finally, wrapping up the tale in the scrupulously polite tones of someone who knows he is being very rude indeed. “My sister could have made a jump like that with her eyes closed, but I suppose we can’t expect him to be good at everything.”

He claps a hand on Arthur’s bad shoulder, making him wince, and without thinking Merlin steps in between them, knocking Ulfric’s arm away and into the gravy dish. The knight jerks back, cursing, dripping sauce all over the tabletop, and Merlin says in a casual voice that is nevertheless pitched to carry,

“Will your sister also be beating you on the tourney field tomorrow, my lord? If you fight as well as you ride, I wouldn’t be surprised if she could do that blindfolded too.”

Across from him, one of the ladies titters nervously, a shocked hand covering her mouth, and then there is the sound of wood scraping stone as Ulfric pushes back his seat, his face livid. He towers over Merlin by a considerable margin; Merlin has his magic, of course, but that’s as likely to get him killed as not if he uses it in front of Uther, and when is Merlin going to learn to stop picking on people with twice his size and twice his influence at court?

In the next instant, Arthur is on his feet too, grabbing Merlin by the shoulder and stepping forward to insert himself bodily between the two men. It’s not as though he can do much, with one arm in a sling and everything, but the table goes quiet anyway—Arthur’s presence tends to have that effect—and even Ulfric takes half a step away from him, fists opening and closing uselessly at his sides.

“Is there a problem, Sir Ulfric?” the prince asks, full of polite good humour. “There’s nothing wrong with your meal, I hope?”

The knight looks between Arthur and Merlin, his eyes narrowed. “Not the meal, no,” he says. “But the help certainly leaves something to be desired.”

“As does the company,” Merlin mutters, since apparently he still hasn’t learned his lesson. He imagines Gaius’ dismay when he hears that his ward has been executed in his absence, and tries to soften his statement. “Uh. My lord.”

“Arthur, get your servant under control,” Uther says, setting his napkin down on the table in disgust. “I won’t have him insulting our guests.”

“Of course, Father,” Arthur says. His gaze hasn’t left Sir Ulfric’s face. “Merlin, apologise to Sir Ulfric.”

“Arthur!”

“ _Mer_ lin.” There’s a dangerous note in Arthur’s voice, and Merlin closes his mouth, cursing his own instinctive obedience. Magic prickles beneath his fingertips, urging him to turn Sir Ulfric into a toad. A horrible, wet, slimy one, with warts all over it. It’s the least that he deserves. “Apologise.”

“I’m sorry, Sir Ulfric.” Sorry you’re a rotten cheat and a dirty liar. Sorry that we’re in public and I can’t curse you the way I want to. “I forgot my place. It won’t happen again.”

“I’m sure it won’t,” Arthur says, before Ulfric can say anything, his fingers digging painfully into Merlin’s shoulder. “Merlin is a little slow on the uptake, Sir Ulfric, but he means well; I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse his terrible manners.”

There is a fraught pause, during which all three of them glare at one another. Merlin has the distinct impression that Ulfric is weighing them up, trying to decide whether it would be worth upsetting the king to revenge himself against his son. Then Arthur shifts his weight, a subtle gesture that is not lost on the knight, and Merlin at least has the satisfaction of seeing Sir Ulfric knuckle under almost as quickly as he had.

“Of course, sire.” Even his smile is hard and rock-like, full of misshapen teeth like broken tombstones. “I’m sure the boy meant no harm. It’s touching to see a lad display such…loyalty.”

Not a toad; a snake. Or perhaps something smaller and uglier, something worthy of the way he twists the world _loyalty_ in his mouth and turns it into something obscene.

“He is very loyal,” Arthur agrees mildly, his expression barely changing and yet somehow appearing the more menacing for it. “I sometimes think he has more loyalty than sense, but perhaps that’s just as well. I’m sure he will learn to hold his tongue eventually.”

He turns his back without waiting for Ulfric’s reply, and steers Merlin away from the knight’s table with a firm hand clamped around the back of his neck. Around them, the courtiers have slowly begun to talk amongst themselves again, although Merlin can still feel their eyes on him. He keeps his head down. He’s never been afraid of Arthur, and he’s not about to start now, but he should probably at least attempt to appear properly cowed in front of the king.

“Sorry, sire,” he says quietly, with a shade more contrition than he had shown before. “I honestly wasn't expecting him to get so angry.”

Arthur shakes his head. “Just—pour me some more wine,” he says, pushing Merlin towards his jug without any further ceremony. His thumb brushes the line of Merlin’s neck, its gentleness contradicting the irritation in his tone as he growls, “And for God’s sake, keep your mouth shut. I’m not going to bail you out if you get into trouble again.”

+

“My father could have had you flogged for that, you know,” Arthur says later, when Merlin has finished undressing him and is seeing to the fire. “What you said to Sir Ulfric. Whatever possessed you to start insulting him in public? He’d have been well within his rights to have had you arrested.”

“I got carried away,” Merlin replies shortly. He can still feel Arthur’s fingers at his throat, and the sensation makes him feel prickly and strange. “He wasn’t particularly pleasant to me himself, you know, it’s not like it was entirely my fault.”

Arthur shoots him an odd look. “I never said it was,” he says. “And I happen to think he deserved everything he got. But—really, Merlin. There’s a time and a place.”

Merlin purses his lips and says nothing. Arthur is right; it had been stupid to let Ulfric get under his skin the way he had. He’s not even sure why it had bothered him so much; it was certainly nothing worse than the things he had said to Arthur himself on occasion, but hearing them from Ulfric’s lips had made them seem ugly.

“Merlin?” Merlin looks up. Arthur has left the bed and padded across the room to stand beside him, looking oddly uncertain. “Are you all right?”

“It’s nothing, sire.” He tries to muster a smile. “I’m just tired.”

“You don’t look it,” Arthur says, surveying him critically. “But then, you did just narrowly escape having your head torn off. Did you see Sir Ulfric’s face when you mentioned his sister? I don’t think they have a very harmonious relationship.”

In spite of himself, Merlin snorts, and Arthur’s serious manner relaxes into a smile.

“There it is.” He touches Merlin’s chin briefly, a fond look crossing his face. “I was beginning to wonder if your face had set in that expression.”

“Don’t be stupid.” Merlin ducks out of his reach, suddenly acutely aware of the fact that they're alone together, and Arthur is practically naked. “I wouldn’t want to repeat your mistake.”

“Ha, ha.” Arthur aims a kick at his shins, but Merlin just grins at him and begins to snuff out the candles. He’s pretty sure that, if he asked, Arthur wouldn’t be averse to falling into bed with him, and just a few short hours ago he would have welcomed the possibility, thinking only of sating the arousal still humming in his blood. But now he’s not so sure it’s a good idea. He’s not idiot enough to think that this is anything other than a fun diversion for the prince, nor does he want to fall in love with someone who clearly thinks of him as little more than a friendly nuisance.

The trouble is, however, he’s beginning to suspect that he already has.

+

After their encounter at the feast, Merlin does his best to keep out of Sir Ulfric’s way, something which is fortunately quite easy to do given that Arthur won’t be facing him in the tournament. This leaves Merlin free to remain by the prince’s side, silently rooting for the knight’s opponent from the stands as Ulfric does his best to pound the other man into the dirt. If he also daydreams a bit about all the annoying curses he could use if it weren’t, you know, in public, and also sort of illegal—well, no one has to know about _that_ except himself, and possibly also Gaius whenever he returns.

Things between Merlin and Arthur have also cooled somewhat, though not for Arthur’s lack of trying. That morning, when Merlin had been cutting up his breakfast, the prince had attempted to coax him into feeding him again the way he had done the day before, but Merlin’s heart hadn’t really been in it. It was for the best, he told himself, pretending he didn’t see the hurt look on Arthur’s face when he’d merely cut up the meat and left him to it. Arthur had no idea what he was getting into, and would no doubt be horrified if he found out he’d been flirting with a sorcerer—to say nothing of what he'd think about Merlin being head over heels in love with him. He was just saving them both the pain of that eventual heartache, even if it meant things would be awkward in the meantime.

To the prince’s credit, he took the rejection gracefully enough, leaving Merlin alone throughout the tournament and keeping his hands politely to himself. Afterwards, while Merlin is dressing him for the feast, he keeps his gaze fixed firmly on the floor instead of following Merlin around the room the way he usually would, and he doesn’t complain at all when Merlin re-bandages his wrist and sets it carefully back in its sling.

_Definitely for the best_ , Merlin reminds himself, as he fastens Arthur’s cloak around his neck, and _really, it’s for Arthur’s own good_ , when he trails after the prince into the Great Hall. Arthur will thank him in the long run, and Merlin will thank _himself_ when he doesn’t end up with his heart shattered into a million pieces, despite the fact that his fingers are itching to reach out and bury themselves in Arthur’s hair. He’s definitely, absolutely doing the right thing, no matter how much his body seems to think otherwise, and he’s not going to let Arthur’s wounded looks or cool demeanour sway him from his course.

The evening drags. Merlin suffers through the seemingly interminable round of toasting to Camelot’s new champion—Ulfric had won his bout as predicted, much to Merlin’s disappointment—and dutifully applauds each time, wishing he could hex the smug smile off the other man’s face. Arthur seems to be experiencing similar sentiments, and more than once Merlin catches him glaring in Sir Ulfric’s direction, gripping his two-pronged fork as though he’d very much like to stab the man with it somewhere sensitive. He also seems to be consuming rather more than his share of the unwatered wine.

“Don’t you think you’ve had enough, sire?” Merlin murmurs, the fifth time he is beckoned forward to refill Arthur’s goblet. “The wine is particularly strong today.”

Arthur lets out a humourless laugh. “Are you worried I might make a fool of myself?” he asks, a faint trace of self-mockery in his voice. “I think I’ve done more than enough of that already, don’t you?”

Merlin winces inwardly, but he doesn’t respond, deciding that under the circumstances discretion is certainly the better part of valour. His heart does twist a little in his chest, however, when he sees Arthur dancing later with one of the young noblewomen of the court, his head flung back in a defiant burst of laughter, and he rubs at his breastbone absently for a moment before reminding himself that this is what he wanted—that Arthur finding someone else to flirt with is definitely for the best, for both of them.

He really is beginning to hate that phrase.

+

He makes an effort to remain cheerful throughout the evening, but by the time Arthur has moved on to his third noblewoman of the night he decides that retreating should probably be a significant part of valour also, at least so far as he is concerned. He clears away Arthur’s plate, satisfied that he won’t be returning to it, and has already slipped out of the front doors and into the servant’s hall when he hears the sound of hurrying footsteps behind him.

“Where are you off to?” someone asks, and turning guiltily Merlin finds that Arthur has followed him, his circlet slightly askew and a hectic flush on his cheeks. “I didn’t give you permission to leave, you know.”

He sounds a little petulant, or perhaps a little drunk, and Merlin sighs inwardly as he realises that he’s not going to be able to escape without coming up with a plausible excuse. Arthur can be terribly persistent at the best of times, and it’s clear that the wine has only served to make him even more stubborn.

“I—I was going to fetch some more sweetmeats, sire,” Merlin invents, backing a few steps down the corridor. Arthur is standing in a pool of candlelight, his hair burnished gold and his lips a soft, kissable red, and it’s possible Merlin is also a tiny bit drunk because it’s more difficult than it should be to look away from him. “They’ve run out of sugared almonds at the high table, and I—”

“Try again,” Arthur interrupts, stepping closer to him. “There were several full platters on the table when I left it a few minutes ago, and I’m pretty sure at least one of them was almonds.”

Defeated, Merlin lets out a breath, and tries to think of a way to fob Arthur off that won’t sound too insensitive—or worse, too revealing. Nothing comes to mind, and after a moment Arthur’s shoulders sag, some of the anger draining out of his body.

“Did I do something wrong?” he asks softly, his brows furrowed as he searches Merlin’s face. “You’ve been avoiding me all day, and I thought—I thought we were just having fun, but if I made you uncomfortable—”

“No,” Merlin interrupts, unable to listen to any more. “Gods, Arthur, no, that’s not what this is about. You didn’t make me uncomfortable, or at least, not in a bad way, I just—” He closes his eyes, summoning up his strength. “I wanted it too much,” he finishes, bracing himself. “I wanted _you_ too much, and I couldn’t—”

Arthur kisses him.

Taken by surprise, Merlin gasps, a shock of magic running through him like a seismic jolt. It’s been a long time since someone kissed him, and even longer still since he’d kissed them back, so it’s probably only to be expected that the sensation of it makes his entire body tingle, the overflow of magical energy spilling out into the corridor and toppling a nearby statue. Merlin barely notices, too absorbed in the way it feels to finally have Arthur’s lips on his, Arthur’s un-bandaged hand cradling the side his face as he crushes their mouths together—but someone else does.

“ _Sorcerer!_ ”

Startled, Merlin wrenches himself away from Arthur and turns his head, just in time to see Sir Ulfric pulling a wicked-looking dagger from his belt. There’s no time to move—no time to do anything really, beyond stare in transfixed horror as Ulfric draws back his arm to throw—and then Arthur is shoving him bodily out of the way, pushing Merlin back and into the wall just as the knight lets fly.

Merlin doesn’t see where the dagger lands; his head knocks hard against the stone, blurring his vision for a moment, and when he can see again it’s to find Arthur striding forward to punch the knight in the face, only to go down a moment later as Ulfric retaliates with a cruel blow to his broken arm.

Arthur’s cry of pain is galvanising. Merlin leaps into action, words of power springing to his lips unbidden as he flings out a hand. “ _Forsete þín hámfare,”_ he shouts, and Sir Ulfric goes flying, slamming into the far wall with the sound of shattering stone. He slides to the floor in a heap, stunned, but Merlin ignores him and turns instead to the prince. “Arthur, are you all right?”

Arthur is on his knees, his injured wrist cradled against his chest; for a moment, Merlin thinks wildly that he hasn’t seen, that he can somehow play this off as some kind of accident. But then Ulfric is getting to his feet again, charging towards them both with a yell of rage as he draws his sword, and Merlin is forced to turn and confront him properly.

“ _Forbeode,_ ” he snarls, slamming Ulfric into the wall again, and this time he holds him there with his magic, sliding him up and up until his feet are dangling from the floor. His sword clatters to the ground. “ _Ne fel hine._ ”

“Merlin. Let him go.” Arthur is getting to his feet at last, leaning with his good arm against the wall. “I’m all right, and I’m sure that if you release him, Sir Ulfric will promise not to tell my father. Won’t you, Sir Ulfric?”

“I will not,” Sir Ulfric growls through gritted teeth, struggling against his invisible bonds. “I know your secret, _sire_ —and the king deserves to know that his precious son has been fucking a _sorcerer_ —”

Merlin tightens his hand into a fist, and Ulfric’s voice cuts off abruptly. Eyes bulging, he paws at his throat with both hands, and Merlin glares up at him, his heart still pounding inside his chest. He doesn’t dare look at Arthur.

“Maybe I _should_ turn him into a toad,” he muses, taking a step towards the helpless knight. “Or something small and slimy to match his personality. How would you feel about becoming a slug, Sir Knight?”

“Merlin,” Arthur says again. “That’s enough.”

He sounds like he means it, and after a reluctant pause Merlin finally lets Ulfric go, watching him collapse back onto the floor. This time, at least, he has the good sense to stay down, though from the expression on his face when he looks at Arthur, Merlin can guess the sort of thoughts that must be running through his head.

“Listen to me very carefully,” Arthur says, crouching down so that he can look the other man in the eye, “because I’m only going to say this once. Whatever you saw here—whatever you _think_ you saw—is between me and my manservant, and therefore none of your business. If you so much as breathe a word about any of this to _anyone_ , including my father, I will see to it that he also knows about the way you just tried to kill me, and then Merlin will make sure no one ever hears from you again. Do you understand?”

Ulfric scowls ferociously, his jaw muscles flexing in obvious frustration. But he has no weapons, and no leverage, and so after a moment he nods his head.

“Say it.”

“I understand,” Ulfric grits out. “I won’t say anything. On my honour as a knight, not to anyone.”

“Good.” After studying his face for a moment longer, Arthur straightens up again, then takes a step back and gestures along the corridor with his free hand, making a shooing motion. “Now get out of my sight. I want you out of this castle and preferably out of my kingdom come sunup.”

Without a word, Ulfric scrambles to his feet and slopes off, casting a poisonous look over his shoulder at the two of them as he goes, and Merlin lets out his breath in a sigh of relief.

“Well,” Arthur says. “I think that’s the last we’ll see of him in Camelot. And good riddance.”

He looks at Merlin, and some of the lightness in his expression fades, as though it has just sunk in exactly what has just happened. Merlin swallows hard.

“Arthur, I’m sorry—” he begins, but the prince holds up a hand.

“As for you,” he says without inflection. “You’re coming with me.”

+

Merlin trails after him through the castle, torn between a vague feeling of humiliation and not inconsiderable anxiety. He doesn’t _really_ believe that Arthur will have him executed (…he hopes), but he also wouldn’t put it past the prince to lock him in the dungeons or something for a while out of pique. Arthur has never taken surprises very well, and finding out that his manservant is a sorcerer is bound to have come as something of a shock.

Fortunately, however, Arthur doesn’t seem to be heading in that direction; he takes the staircase going up instead of down, striding through a series of familiar corridors until they reach—

“Your rooms?” Merlin says, frowning in confusion. “Arthur, why—”

“Have you _any idea_ ,” Arthur says, rounding on him, “how close you just came to ending up with your head on a block?”

Merlin sighs, letting the door slide shut behind him. This would be why they’re in Arthur’s chambers, then. So that the prince can yell at him in private.

“Look, Arthur, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” he begins, but Arthur cuts across him, gesticulating furiously for Merlin to shut up.

“You attacked a _knight_ , Merlin. Not only is Sir Ulfric at least twice your size and carrying a blade, but all he would need to do is say one word to my father and you’d be dead. Why on earth would you be so careless?”

Merlin blinks. “He hurt you,” he says, as though Arthur could possibly have forgotten it. “He deliberately humiliated you yesterday at the feast, and then before, in the corridor—”

Arthur lets out a sound, part frustration and part only God knows what, and then suddenly he’s in Merlin’s space, startling him so much that he takes a step backward and bangs into the door.

“You,” Arthur says calmly, “are such an _idiot_.”

Of all the ways Merlin had expected this conversation to go—and he’s had a few years to imagine what Arthur’s reaction to finding out about his magic might be like—being shoved up against Arthur’s door and snogged to within an inch of his life had been among the least likely (or so he’d thought) ever to occur. He does _not_ squeak, whatever Arthur may try to claim afterwards, and there is only a minimal amount of flailing before his hands find purchase in Arthur’s shirt and he drags him closer. Arthur lets out a grunt of pain, and only then does Merlin remember his arm.

“Shit, sorry,” he says, letting go. “You’re hurt, I should—”

“I’m fine,” Arthur says impatiently. “It’s nothing.”

“You have a broken arm and were nearly stabbed to death,” Merlin objects. “At least let me check to make sure you’re okay.”

Arthur sighs, looking put-upon, but he allows Merlin to drag him over to one of the dining chairs and unlace his shirt, tugging it off over his head to examine his bruises. Fortunately, Ulfric’s knife appears to have missed anything vital, but there’s a thin red line across Arthur’s ribs that is still oozing a little, and Merlin’s pretty sure he can see fresh bruising coming up on Arthur’s fair skin from where he fell. He summons the jar of salve from the bedside table without a word, his fingers trembling slightly as he reaches out to touch the marks.

“I thought he was going to kill you,” he murmurs, and Arthur’s face softens.

“I’m fine,” he says again, catching hold of Merlin’s hand and bringing his knuckles to his lips. “Ulfric took me by surprise, that’s all. I had everything under control.”

“Oh, sure.” In spite of himself, Merlin rolls his eyes. “Weaponless and with a broken arm, I’m sure you’d have fought him off handily.”

“I would have,” Arthur insists, grinning. “Only some lunatic sorcerer charged in and started throttling him instead. It was very entertaining.”

Merlin bites his lip and looks down at where Arthur’s still holding onto him, rubbing his thumb over the find bone of Merlin’s wrist like it’s something precious. Hot shame twists in his gut. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly, meeting Arthur’s gaze. “I didn’t mean for you to find out that way. You must think I’m a monster.” 

But Arthur only looks at him, the warmth in his expression never changing.

“You saved my life, Merlin,” he says. “You’re not a monster. And I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t be dying to kiss you right now if you were.”

“That’s not—that isn’t—!” Merlin sputters, then huffs out a reluctant laugh as Arthur smirks at him. Even so, he digs in his heels as the prince tries to tug him closer. “Are you sure about this?”

“Very,” Arthur says, kissing Merlin’s palm, and whatever lingering resistance Merlin might have had— _surely Arthur didn’t really mean it—_ melts along with his self-restraint as he surges forward to capture Arthur’s mouth.

It’s not a very good angle for kissing, and there are several awkward moments in which Arthur nearly topples over backwards and Merlin puts his elbow squarely in the pot of arnica balm, but they make do. Merlin straddles Arthur’s lap, mindful of his sling, and cups his face in both hands, searching his eyes one last time for any hint of trepidation or doubt. Arthur gazes steadily back at him, letting Merlin look, then tilts his chin up in the same expectant gesture he had used the day before to get Merlin to feed him. Merlin laughs in spite of himself.

“Prat,” he says, kissing him again as Arthur slides his free hand up the small of his back, and then he’s rolling his hips to bring their groins together, trapping Arthur’s answering moan inside his mouth.

It’s not so much _sex in a chair_ as it is _awkward fumbling in a chair_ , and also _nearly falling out of a chair_ when Arthur’s hand dips into Merlin’s breeches unexpectedly, but Merlin wouldn’t trade the mess of it for anything. He leans his forehead against Arthur’s, panting wildly, his hands braced against the back of the headrest as Arthur pumps his cock in long, slow strokes, bringing him agonisingly close to the edge without quite pushing him over.

“You’re doing it on purpose, aren’t you,” he gasps, as Arthur’s thumb sweeps over the head and down, sending a shudder of need running through his body. “Always making promises you’re not going to keep. You bloody tease.”

“I’m a wounded man, Merlin,” Arthur says, smiling as he mouths at the underside of Merlin’s chin. “What do you expect when you’re taking advantage of me in my weakened state?”

“ _I’m_ taking advantage.” Merlin closes his eyes. “I’m your servant. You’re constantly using your power to order me about.”

“And you’re constantly using yours to ignore me impudently,” Arthur replies, and before Merlin can ask him what he meant Arthur leans up to kiss him, murmuring the words _my_ _sorcerer_ against his lips.

Merlin goes still. Arthur’s hand keeps moving, tipping him into orgasm almost against his will, and he spills over the prince’s chest with a low sound that is equal parts shock and pleasure, feeling as though he has just been punched in the stomach in more ways than one.

“You—you _knew_?” he whispers finally, sagging into a limp heap against the table. “How did you know? I never said anything.”

“You’re not exactly subtle,” Arthur answers, and though he’s smiling as he says it something in his eyes is wary, like he’s not sure how Merlin will react. “I figured it out a while ago, but I wasn’t completely sure until you tried to heal my wrist. One moment I was in agony, and the next…” He gestures. “Gone. I know it’s still broken, but it hardly hurts at all.”

“Oh.”

Merlin considers this, and considers also the evidence of Arthur’s sleepless night, how carefully Arthur had manoeuvred him away from his father and Ulfric and anyone who might have wished to do him harm. Slowly, he lets himself relax, taking what feels like his first real breath since he came to Camelot, and only then does he realise just how tightly Arthur has been holding onto his waist.

“You could have just said something,” he says, turning his head to nuzzle into Arthur’s soft hair. “If you’d asked me straight out, I wouldn’t have lied to you.”

“Wouldn’t you?” Arthur doesn’t let him go. “Because it seems like you’ve been doing an awful lot of that, lately.”

It’s probably true—no, scratch that, it’s _definitely_ true—but there have always been good reasons for Merlin’s untruths, starting with the king and ending with the executioner’s axe, and he knows Arthur of all people must have recognised the risks.

“I didn’t want you to have to choose,” he says finally, hoping the prince will understand. “Your father—he was annoyed with you about the tourney, but if he found out about me, or worse, if he found about _this_ —”

“He would be furious,” Arthur agrees, and for a moment he looks so lost that Merlin has to lean over and kiss him again, sliding his tongue into Arthur’s mouth and his fingers through Arthur’s hair.

  
“I won’t give you up, though,” he whispers, making it a promise as he bites into Arthur’s lower lip. “Not if you don’t want me to.”

Arthur doesn’t say anything else, but he doesn’t have to; the answer is already there in the look on his face, and the way his hand slides down Merlin’s flank to grip his thigh. He’s still hard between them, and Merlin rubs against him teasingly, enjoying the way Arthur’s lips part as his head falls back.

“We should probably take this to the bed,” he says, sucking a kiss to Arthur’s throat and smiling when the prince makes an incoherent noise of disagreement. “The last thing we need is for you to break your other arm when the chair tips over. You’d never win another tournament.”

“Hang the tournament,” Arthur says roughly, tangling his fingers in Merlin’s hair and pulling him in for another kiss. “I’d rather win you instead.”

Which, Merlin thinks somewhat dizzily, is about as close to a declaration of love as he’s likely to get—but he’ll take it.


End file.
